


Take it Away

by QueerImagination (overanxiousManiac)



Series: Healing [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fix-It, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers-centric, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overanxiousManiac/pseuds/QueerImagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of "What You Choose" (Part 1 of "Healing Can Hurt" series). Steve leaves Wakanda and joins Natasha, Clint, and Wanda. Wanda unexpectedly offers help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take it Away

Steve walks out of the airport, one bag in hand. He adjusts his sunglasses and pulls his cap down as he searches around for a familiar face. People file out of the airport behind him, coming out to the curb to pile into cars and taxis. Steve tightly clutches the handles of his duffle bag, tapping his foot anxiously. He’s too exposed here—far too exposed.

“Hey!”

Steve turns at the sound of a familiar voice. Natasha comes toward him, but she looks completely different. She’s wearing reflective sunglasses. Her hair is darker, a deep auburn. It’s longer, straight, and she has bangs that cover most of her face. When she reaches Steve, she speaks in a low voice but keeps smiling.

“Hug me. Kiss my cheek.”

 He obeys, taking her into his arms. The hug, he realizes, lasts longer than it was probably supposed to. He didn’t realize how much he actually missed her. When he kisses her cheek it’s quick, and Natasha takes his hand and interlocks their fingers.

“Keep smiling. Laugh, like I said something funny.”

He does. They keep walking, Natasha clinging to Steve’s arm and rambling on about something or other. He’s not really paying attention. He’s trying to not look suspicious while simultaneously sizing up every person outside the airport. He can’t trust anyone here—he’s still a wanted man. Italy isn’t as large as the States, and they probably aren’t searching as hard for Steve or the rest of the avengers, but he knows that there are eyes everywhere, and that nowhere is safe.

When they reach Natasha’s car—very inconspicuous, not her style at all—Steve climbs into the passenger’s seat. Natasha climbs in, starts the car, and for a while, they don’t move.

She takes off her sunglasses and lays them in her lap. She looks up at Steve.

“Hey.” And she’s finally herself again, not wearing a mask. Not pretending to be someone else. “Are you okay?”

Steve doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the answer to that question. He doesn’t feel like himself, so maybe that constitutes as not being okay. The last time he felt okay, he was wrapped up in Bucky’s arms in Wakanda. Steve closes his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

Natasha nods.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” She tells him. “I know we talked before. But, after everything that happened—”

“None of that matters.” Steve cuts in. “You helped me. You helped Bucky. That’s what counts.”

Natasha lays her head against the headrest. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for siding with Tony Stark in this.” She says. Steve reaches over and gently takes her hand. It’s honest, this time, not for show. Not for anything but comforting a friend.

“I forgive you.” He sighs. “We all have choices we regret.”

Natasha doesn’t respond, but he knows that she understands.

*

For the night, they stay at a hostel on the Grand Canal. The room is small, humid, and there’s no air conditioning. The paint on the walls is chipped and there are cracks in the corners. The two twin beds are neat, but the beddings are old and have been used for many years. None of this is of any consequence to Steve, who drops his bag upon entering the room, and walks out onto the balcony to watch the water. Natasha leaves him in the room alone, telling him that she has something to take care of, and he doesn’t respond.

He spends most of the night there, just staring out, watching the tourists float by on gondola rides. The water moves lazily and changes color with the movement of the sun.

Steve doesn’t know how long he stands there, but when he feels Natasha’s gentle hand on his shoulder, the sun is already splayed against the horizon. He turns and she’s standing behind him with two brown paper bags, full of food.

Natasha asks if he’s hungry. He isn’t. She tells him to eat anyway and he doesn’t protest. The food tastes like cardboard in his mouth. As discreet as Natasha is, Steve still notices her sending worrying glances in his direction. He doesn’t want that, doesn’t want her concern or her pity, so he starts talking to take off the edge.

“How are Wanda and Clint?” He asks.

Natasha shrugs. “Clint is fine. Misses his kids, but until we find a way to fix this—you know.” She takes a deep breath. “Wanda is…” Natasha puts down her fork, stops eating her pasta. She looks at Steve. “Wanda is still recovering.”

Steve feels a pang of pain in his chest. He can tell by the tone of Natasha’s voice that Wanda isn’t doing as well as he had hoped. He remembers what she was like when he and T’Challa rescued the others from the Raft. Her skin had been pale, sickly white, and the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes were agonizingly defined. Steve got her out first, disabled and ripped off the shock-collar that they’d forced around her neck. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, only held onto Steve like her life depended on it. He hugged her before passing her off to T’Challa, who secured her in the Quinjet. _“I’ve got you”_ Steve told her, speaking against her brown, matted hair as she shivered and the winds whipped around them. _“I’ve got you”_

“When can I see her?”

“I haven’t told them that we’re here yet.” She admits. “Clint has been taking care of her.”

Steve nods once.

It’s been a month since then. It’s been about three weeks since Bucky went back under. Despite all of their pain, time keeps moving. The world keeps turning.

That night, Steve doesn’t sleep. He clutches one pillow to his chest and buries his face into it. The hot tears come now, like they do every night. He’s shuddering beneath the thin sheet and it has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. In the bed beside his, Natasha breathes softly, but Steve isn’t sure if she’s actually sleeping or merely pretending for his sake.

He feels empty, hollow, like something has been torn from him. All he can do here is think of Bucky, mind plagued with regret and anguish. All he can do is remember all of the tender moments they shared, fingers intertwined, Steve’s hands running through Bucky’s hair, Bucky’s soft lips on his mouth. His heart aches, memories heavy on his chest. He can only think about how he hopes— _prays—_ that Bucky will come back, and be the same. He prays that they find something to help him, because Steve can’t bear to live in a world without him. Not again.

Steve thinks of Wanda, of how they broke her, of how the will to live was lost in her eyes. She is just a child, a girl who has been used, a girl who has lost so much, only to be captured—tortured—and locked away. Sam told Steve about how he was treated on the Raft. He can only imagine what happened to Wanda. He cries for her too, cries because he didn’t get to her sooner, because he couldn’t save her from that pain.

Morning comes, and Steve hasn’t slept. He and Natasha don’t talk about whether or not she was actually sleeping.

*

Clint and Wanda’s safe house is far away from the populated city of Venice.

They’re staying in a small house on the Italian countryside. It’s modest, quiet, and far away from any people that might happen to recognize them.

Clint waits for them outside. He’s dressed in a plain white shirt and jeans, not adorned by his suit, or any of his arrows. Now, Steve thinks, he actually looks retired. He hugs Natasha, squeezing her gently before moving to Steve, taking one hand, holding it, and then wrapping his other arm behind Steve’s shoulders.

“Good to see you, Cap.”

Steve hugs Clint, nodding softly. “You too, pal.”

They go into the house then, Natasha and Steve trailing behind Clint. The inside of the house is bright, illuminated by the sun’s natural light. There’s a small kitchen nook and a tiny living room, nothing fancy or extravagant. Steve looks to Clint.

“Where’s Wanda?”

Clint points up. “She stays there most days.” His expression is tired, absolutely exhausted. “Door on the left.”

Steve doesn’t hesitate—he heads upstairs immediately. At the top of the stairs, he goes to the door on the left. It’s unlocked so he enters slowly. Light spills out of the door as he opens it, and he has to shield his eyes upon entering. The first thing he sees is the bed—simple, with white pillows and white sheets—but Wanda is not there. He surveys the room and then finds Wanda in the corner, curled up in an armchair, covered by an old quilt. Her eyes are shut and Steve doesn’t know if she’s sleeping, or just resting, but he speaks her name just in case.

Immediately, Wanda’s eyes open and quickly dart around the room. They land on Steve and she gasps, rising in the chair.

“Steve,” she breathes his name. “You’re _here_?” He sees the tears gathering in her eyes, glossing them. Steve rushes toward her and gathers the girl in his arms. “You’re real. You _are_ here.” She whispers into his shoulder, holding onto him as tightly as her arms can manage.

“I’m here.” Steve tells her. “I’ve got you.”

“Thank goodness.” Wanda whispers. Her hands are trembling. Steve hugs her tighter.

They stay like that for a while, with Steve’s arms wrapped around Wanda’s tiny frame. He can feel her bones, like sharp edges. Her skin is pale and cold and she looks like she hasn’t slept in days—she probably hasn’t.

“Were you in Wakanda, with their king, T’Challa?” Wanda eventually asks.

Steve nods. He slowly releases her into the chair again and kneels in front of it.

“And with your friend, Bucky?”

He nods again. “Yeah, we were all there.”

“Where is Bucky, then? Is he here?”

Steve ignores the pang in his chest and shakes his head. “No. Bucky’s been in cryosleep for about a month now. I…stayed in Wakanda for a few weeks after. I couldn’t really…” His sentence trails off. He doesn’t know how to tell Wanda that he couldn’t find the strength to leave. He doesn’t know how to tell Wanda that he visited the cryo chamber every night for a week, hoping that someone would change. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he is broken, even now. Instead, he says “It was hard to leave.”

“He’s your best friend.” Wanda says. “I know what it’s like to lose your best friend.”

Steve wishes that she didn’t.

“T’Challa’s trying to find a way to help him; he’s trying to find a way to pull out all the stuff that Hydra put inside his head. They controlled him for so long.”

“I know what that’s like, too.” Wanda’s voice is soft, almost fragile. “What did they _do_ to him, Steve?”

Steve takes a deep breath before he speaks. “They brainwashed him. For seventy years.” The words hurt, and so does the thought of all of the pain that Bucky must have endured. “They took him apart and put him back together again. Wiped away all of his memories, took everything that made him who he was. And then they used him to do their dirty work. And while they weren’t using him, they threw him in a cryofreeze chamber like a piece of meat.” Steve’s voice rises with his anger. “And he…when he was finally able to break away, he just got dragged back in. Still not himself. Still not free from the brainwashing and the conditioning.” _Still a prisoner to a list of words_ , Steve leaves out. His hands are shaking now and his skin is hot.

Wanda doesn’t bring Bucky up for a long time.

He and Natasha stay with Clint and Wanda for a while and Steve is thankful for the presence of his friends. They don’t ask why he didn’t stay in Wakanda and they, too, don’t ask about Bucky. They don’t talk about Tony, Ross, or the Accords. They just exist, in peace, because they know that peace seldom lasts.

Weeks pass and Steve spends most of his time with Wanda. He helps her to venture outside again, gets her talking, and eating. There’s pink in her cheeks again and her skin starts to gain back its warm glow.

She still has nightmares, just like Bucky, violent ones that leave her shaking and crying out for help in the middle of the night. Sometimes, she cries in her sleep, and when Steve comes to her room, he finds all the furniture floating in midair, shrouded in red. He always wakes Wanda gently. Sometimes she keeps crying. Sometimes she is just silent. But Steve always stays with her, always lets her know that she’s safe.

It surprises Steve when, one night, Wanda ends coming to him, in the living room where he sleeps. She doesn’t look scared or upset, as she often is during the night; she is calm, composed, and has a steely look in her eye.

Steve sits up, turning on the light as he rubs his eyes and tries to focus on Wanda.

“Is something wrong?” He quickly asks.

Wanda wrings her hands together slowly, curls and stretches her fingers.

“I’ve been dreaming of Bucky.” She confesses. Steve is confused, barely awake, but when he hears Bucky’s name, his mind snaps to attention. “And I think I can help him. Maybe.”

“What?” Steve questions, not understanding.

Wanda’s hands begin to glow red; the energy swirls in-between her fingers, illuminating her skin. “My powers are vast,” She says. “And I can’t always control them. But I think there’s something I can do that might help your friend. I hope.”

“Something like what?” Steve asks.

Wanda sighs, as if exhausted, and her eyes grow sad. “When my brother and I were children, we were wanderers. Orphans living off the land, doing anything to survive. But stray children tend to draw attention,” She twists the red wisps in her hand, staring into them. “I remember once, being caught by a policeman who wanted to arrest us, to send us to an orphanage. I was young but I knew that I never wanted to go to a place like that, a place where they might separate us, or take my brother away. So I wished—I wished with all my heart that the policewoman would never be able to see us again.” Wanda looks up now, extinguishing the energy flares in her palm. “I watched my energy shoot out from my hands, and it took over. But it was more than just controlling her mind. It was…changing it. Changing her reality. When it was over, she walked away from us like she didn’t even see us there. And we crossed paths with her again, but she looked right through us. I altered something, something about her mind. Took something away. And I was so scared—I didn’t understand what I’d done, then. But I never did it again.”

Steve is rendered speechless. Wanda quickly comes to sit down next to him on couch. She reaches out and slowly takes Steve’s hand into hers.

“I think that…all of Bucky’s pain. What they did to him—the conditioning—I think that I can take that away, too.” She nods once, as if to solidify her choice. “I’d have to practice, to get better at controlling it, and that might take a while. But I think I can do that, for him. And for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! Leave comments if you feel so inclined! Part III should be up soon :)  
> find me at aquaticqueer.tumblr.com!


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